Lip Service
by loveleee
Summary: "They're not buying it," Katniss tells him in a low voice, snaking her arms around his back. "We have to…step it up." Katniss and Peeta have a private moment during the Victory Tour. Set during Catching Fire. Written for Day 5, Lust, of Prompts in Panem.


**Lip Service**

"…and that's when I said, 'Leon, _honestly_, that shade of green makes you look like my _horse_!"

The group explodes with laughter, and Peeta laughs along too, taking a long sip of champagne from the flute clutched between his fingers.

Of all the strange, foreign food and drink he's tried on the Victory Tour, champagne might be his favorite – not the taste, which is bitter, or the oddly sharp bite of the bubbles, which burn the back of his throat, but the pleasant warmth that spreads through his belly as it goes down, and the loose, relaxed feeling that buoys him through these endless, inane conversations.

He's about to chime in with a question about colored horses, green and otherwise – these Capitol people never love him better than when he's showing off his ignorance of their lifestyle – when he feels the gentle press of fingers against his hand. He leans into the touch, knowing that it's Katniss.

"Hey," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the top of her head, his arm slipping around her waist. The movements are instinctual now, after weeks of practice; he knows exactly where his hip will bump against her waist, and how to position his feet so she can stand comfortably in heels, tucked against his side.

"Hi," she answers, and reaches up to cup his jaw, drawing his face in for a kiss. But she doesn't kiss him – instead, she brushes her nose clumsily against his cheek. Behind the curtain of her hair, she whispers, "I need to talk to you."

Before he can answer there's a loud laugh, and the woman with the green horse presses her hand over her heart. "You two are just too precious," she crows. "Oh, go on, don't let us bore you."

Peeta smiles at the woman sheepishly, and Katniss ducks her head against his chest in a show of embarrassment. He takes her hand and leads her off to the edge of the room, but halfway there she stops, pulling him down for a deep kiss this time, her fingers flexing against the back of his head.

He's left breathless when she breaks the kiss. "What, um, what's…?" he trails off, the taste of her fading from his tongue.

"They're not buying it," Katniss tells him in a low voice, snaking her arms around his back. "We have to…step it up."

He can't help the twinge in his gut, or the split-second that his face sags from its pasted-on smile; no matter how many times they do this play-pretend there is a part of him that always thinks, _Maybe. Maybe this time it's real._

"Okay," he says. "What do you want to do? I could pick you up, spin you around for a kiss…"

She bites her lip, surveying the room, swaying almost imperceptibly on her feet as she does it. "Let's sneak away," she says finally, and his stupid, foolish heart jumps at the words.

Peeta clears his throat, and nods. "Lead the way."

* * *

They've ended up in coat closets, supply closets, even bathrooms during their tour. But this time, it's a library.

"Wow," Peeta breathes, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling. The walls are stacked with books, at least thirty feet high, sloping into a domed ceiling at the very top. Where there aren't books there are paintings, paintings beyond anything Peeta could create, with rolling fields and horses, and on one wall there's a mirror ringed with gold. Soft yellow light glows from sconces on the walls, tapering down the wooden paneled walls, and he feels as though they've stumbled upon something ancient. Something that shouldn't exist in the sleek, bejeweled concrete world that is District One. "I didn't even know this many books existed."

"All Capitol-approved, I'm sure," Katniss says, sounding unimpressed. But she's gazing around the room with wide eyes just like his, and he knows she can feel it, too: the otherness of this place, the quiet, the solitude.

Without another word, Katniss slips off her heels and pads across the floor to stand before a wooden ladder, shiny in the soft light, wheels on its feet. She places her hands carefully on either side of the ladder, gazing up. Peeta drifts slowly to her side, watching as she sets one small foot on the bottom rung, then another.

"Be careful," he tells her, and nearly blushes from the look she gives him. She _is _the girl who shoots arrows from treetops, after all. But on the fourth rung of the ladder her foot slips on the polished wood, and she tips back with a yelp, her shoulder landing hard against Peeta's chest.

His arms wrap around her without thought, steadying her. "I've got you," he says, a note of worry in his voice. "You okay?"

He can see her nod, and loosens his grip, but instead of pulling away she turns slowly in his arms to face him. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips. "Thanks."

"Anytime." He forces his arms away from her, remembering who they are, why they're here, but she doesn't move away. His heart thuds heavily in his chest.

"Peeta," she says, and then her mouth is on his, warm and wet and familiar and yet _not_, because she's kissing him with an urgency he's never felt before.

He forces himself to break the kiss first. "What's going on?" he asks. She stares at him, taking too long to answer. "Are you _drunk_?"

"Are you?" she challenges, her eyes widening slightly. "You taste like champagne."

"No," he says. And it's true: he might have been drunk, standing there amidst the chatter of candy-colored horses, trying to forget the conversation before it even ended. But the first touch of her lips had sharpened his senses, an instant detox.

"We have to be _convincing_, Peeta," she says, and she kisses him again, pushing her upper body against his, her small breasts pressed against his chest.

His instincts kick in immediately – _kiss her, touch her, rip her clothes off – _but he can't let himself succumb. Not when it's for show. "Why?" he demands, groaning as she moves her lips to his jaw and then his neck, something she's never done before. They've never done _this _before: kiss one another in private, without a camera's flash-and-click to make it count. "What happened? What changed?"

She sucks hard at the soft skin of his neck, and he feels lightheaded, gripping the ladder rung behind her for support.

"I…I can just tell, alright?" she says, her breath a flutter against his neck. "Everything we're doing for them…it's not working."

"Who's 'them'?" he demands, but then her mouth is pressing insistently against his again and Peeta gives in. Because maybe he is still drunk. Because maybe she's right. Because maybe this is his chance, his only chance, to touch the girl he loves in the way that he dreams about, to feel her hot and panting and pliant against him.

Her nimble fingers thread through his hair, guiding him towards the slope of her neck. "Leave a mark," Katniss whispers.

Peeta tilts his head, lowering his lips to the soft flesh. He kisses her and then nips her skin with his teeth, and when she yelps in surprise he pulls back to look. He can just barely make out the slight flush where he bit her. A whine escapes her throat as he presses his lips against her neck again, sucking intently, laving his tongue over the spot where he'll leave a bruise.

And he realizes, suddenly, what he didn't even dare to hope for: she likes it.

She _wants _it.

"Peeta," Katniss gasps, her fingers sliding down his back. She pulls at him and he shifts forward, pressing her back against the ladder rungs, his hips flush against her own. Her head lolls back. "Oh, god."

His cock is already straining against his pants. Her breath is hot against his temple and he sees how this could go, if they let it: tearing her dress away, dropping his trousers, burying himself deep inside of her.

But no matter how loudly she moans, how intently she squirms against him, she is still Katniss and he is still Peeta. He can't forget that. He can't forget that it's not supposed to happen this way; that fucking each other in a library, in a desperate attempt to appease the anonymous "them", is something they could never return from.

Even so. He rolls his hips into hers slowly, firmly, watching her eyelids twitch as he presses himself against her center. Her eyes flutter open to meet his. His hands clutch at her hips and he grinds against her again, harder, and her breath catches in her throat.

His own breaths come stilted, uneven, and he bites down hard on his lip as she rubs herself against him, her face contorting for a split second. She's stimulating her clit, he realizes, and the thought sends him reeling.

Peeta slides his hand under the slit in her skirt, running it up the smooth skin of her thigh, and when his thumb brushes over her in that spot she makes a pleading noise.

"Peeta," she says. "If you touch me there, no one will see."

"They'll see," he says. "They'll see it in your face."

She doesn't protest, and he tugs her panties down, slipping his fingers between her folds.

He finds the spot where she's most sensitive and they watch each other in silence as he rubs her steadily, only pausing to wet his fingers in her arousal. Katniss is coiled tight, tense in her pleasure: her throat tightens, her nostrils flare, her teeth bite into her lower lip so hard he thinks she'll draw blood. Peeta leans in and kisses her once more on the spot where the bruise is already blossoming beneath her skin.

When he slides one finger inside of her, her back arches in surprise. She's warm and wet and tight and _perfect_, better than he ever imagined. "Peeta," she finally gasps out, fingers scraping desperately against the ladder rungs behind her.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" he asks suddenly, adding another finger as his thumb rubs circles on her clit. He shouldn't ask, he knows this, but he wants it so _badly._ He's dizzy for her, for her soft, tight walls, the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

She doesn't answer, letting out a long, low moan instead, her eyes squeezed shut as her hips buck against his hand. "Don't stop," she pleads. "Please don't stop_._"

He pumps his fingers in and out of her, curling them slightly as he does it. As her head tips back against the ladder Katniss pulls at her own hair in desperation, tugging strands loose from her elaborate braid, and it's the sexiest thing he's seen in his life.

He rests his mouth next to her ear in an almost-kiss. "You gonna come?"

"I thi – I think," she whines. "Keep going."

Peeta presses his thumb against her clit harder, rubbing in tight circles, and it's only moments before she shatters. He leaves his fingers inside of her, feeling her convulse around him. Because it's the first time, he reasons, and maybe the last.

Eventually her breathing evens out and her eyes blink open. Peeta pulls his hand from between her legs, and though he aches to taste the wetness she's left on his fingers, he wipes it against his thigh.

Katniss looks down as she straightens her dress, refusing to meet his eyes. The irritation that rises in him is sudden and unexpected. No, not just irritation – anger. She's used him. And he let her.

Peeta gestures roughly to the mirror across the room. "Well?" he says. "Are you convinced?"

She glances at him but doesn't say anything as she moves towards the mirror, hesitant in her bare feet. He watches as she stops, gazing at her reflection, her hand drifting to the mess of hair that she pulled from her braid, to the angry mark on her neck. For one brief, shameful moment, he wishes it would stay there forever.

"Yeah," she says, so soft he can barely hear the word.

"Good." She turns then, and looks at the front of his pants, where his cock is still hard and aching behind the luxe gray fabric. Before she can say anything, he shakes his head.

"It's fine," he mumbles. "I'll take care of it." He half expects her to say _No, they'll love that_, but she only turns her head and waits in silence.

When he's finished he clears his throat, and she nods. "I just need to put on my shoes," she says quietly.

Their hands brush as they reach the door, and Katniss tilts her head up to look at him. "Peeta," she whispers, and there's a new fear in her eyes now, one he can't place. Something else, too, that would pull at some deep part of him, if only he understood it.

He's too tired to try.

"Katniss," he says. It's unspoken: _the show must go on._

Together they open the door.

* * *

A few hundred words of this had been sitting on my harddrive for months and months, and PiP inspired me to finish. I'd love to know what you think!

Huge thanks to misshoneywell for organizing this awesome week of prompts!


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